


The Irony of Loss

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen, Grief, Guilt, Irony, King's Own, Loss, references to death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 10:17:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18386441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Dom reflects on the losses of Fulcher and Lofren. Set at the end of Lady Knight.





	The Irony of Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Individual Character Week Challenge for the Free for All Event at Goldenlake.

The Irony of Loss

Alone on his bedroll, Dom tried to sleep but his mind kept composing letters of condolence to Lofren’s and Fulcher’s families. Tossing and turning in a futile quest for a comfortable position that didn’t seem to exist, he thought that the letters would have to be vague since they had died on a covert mission deep behind enemy lines. He could, he supposed, inform their families that they had died bravely in battle on mission they could have refused—though whether that knowledge would be a consolation of a torment to their families he couldn’t predict since for him it changed from moment to moment like wind on a mountain peak. He wished he could think of ways to capture their personalities on parchment so their families would understand that their sergeant had known and cared about them as individuals, not just soldiers. 

Lofren, the magistrate’s son, had memorized the Own’s regulations better than anyone else Dom had ever met. He could write that in the hope of making Lofren’s father—whom Dom remembered abruptly had never approved of the military path Lofren had taken—proud of his lost son. He would keep to himself how bored Lofren’s interminable lectures on the law had often made him—how many times he had snapped at Lofren to be quiet when the magistrate’s son appeared on the cusp of another long legal discourse. Now, of course, he would have gladly listened to Lofren talk his ear off expositing at length on the most irrelevant legal precedent if it meant he could hear Lofren’s voice just one more time. That was an irony of loss he had to appreciate. 

Fulcher’s letter, he was certain, would be even harder to write. Of all his squad, he had known Fulcher the longest. They had gone through training together and spent so many evenings in the field together, crowded around campfires, competing to see who could spot the most ludicrous images in the flickering flames. He could tell Fulcher’s family about those competitions without upsetting Fulcher’s stern mother, but he would have to keep secret Fulcher’s lurid comments on ladies he found attractive. That would only knock Fulcher’s mother’s nose out of joint, and Dom saw no point in adding to her grief. 

He would feel guilty enough writing to their families tomorrow morning. Every word he wrote would cut into his heart, a stark reminder of his failure to lead all his men safely out of Scanra. Lord Raoul had tried to talk him out of his guilt hours ago, but it hadn’t worked any more than a blade of grass would against one of steel, Dom remembered, rolling restlessly onto his other side. 

In Lord Raoul’s tent along the Tortallan bank of the Vassa, it had been difficult to maintain a cool facade in front of his surviving men—to force smiles and fake laughs when the others did as Lord Raoul described in glorious detail the Tortallan victory that had followed the collapse of the killing devices. 

When the others had trailed out in search of food, it had been a relief to drop the mask—to admit, “I failed, sir. I lost two men in Scanra.” 

“To lose only two of your squad behind enemy lines and accomplish your mission is a success, Dom.” Lord Raoul had gripped Dom’s shoulder firmly, and Dom had come to the disconcerting conclusion that the Knight Commander must have known that some of them would die when he dispatched them to Scanra. Lord Raoul just hadn’t known which ones of them would die. The realization had only made Dom feel emptier inside. “You and your men saved Kel’s hide. You’ll forever have my gratitude for that.” 

“Thank you for giving us the chance to save her skin.” Dom had wanted to rush after Kel as soon as he had overheard in the latrines that she had abandoned Tortall to rescue her refugees. He, who had always striven to be level-headed while those around him panicked under pressure, had lost his carefully cultivated calm. He was hot-blooded enough to impulsively long to go haring after Kel when she committed treason. She had somehow awakened a dormant passion in him. This epiphany had shocked him to the core—had paralyzed him into staying at Fort Mastiff until he had received orders that made chasing after Kel not a treason but a duty. Since it would have been a pity—an irony even he couldn’t find amusing—to bring her back from Scanra alive only for her to lose her head for treason, he had asked, “She won’t be executed then, sir?” 

“Lord Wyldon has agreed it would be best if he claims to have authorized her mission behind enemy lines.” The unmelted ice in Lord Raoul’s tone had told Dom that the Knight Commander had yet to stop blaming Lord Wyldon for Kel’s disappearance behind enemy lines. 

“Truth be told, she didn’t need much saving, sir.” Dom had attempted a crooked grin jagged as the sharp edges of his grief. “You taught her well.” 

That, it occurred to Dom as he shifted on his bedroll, had been another irony of loss: he had been able to save Kel, who hadn’t truly needed rescuing, but not Lofren or Fulcher, who had. He had to appreciate the irony of his loss even as it tore him apart. At least he still had a sense of humor despite everything that had happened in Scanra. That would have been the worst, ultimate loss for any solider, he thought: to lose the ability to find humor in everything that inevitably went wrong as soon as armies started marching and arrows began flying. He could, he decided, handle any loss as long as it didn’t steal his humor, his ironic way of coping with the suffering inflicted by an unfeeling world.


End file.
